But Big Daddy had been dead for twenty years.
Big Daddy rocked, rocked, and rocked in the chair. He faced David.
David felt the weight of his dead grandfather's gaze on him, like a slight pressure on his forehead.
The apparition removed the pipe from his lips and spoke, the mellow voice unmistakeably clear.
"The time is coming, son. "
"What?" David broke his paralysis and stepped into the room. Fear had been replaced by intense curiosity. "What do you mean, Granddad?"
"You've got to fu fill your responsibility to the family. The Hunters' legacy. "
"I ... I don't understand," David said. "What responsibility?"
"Stay strong, son ... stay stong.. .
The apparition began to fade.
"Wait!" David rushed forward. "Don't go!"
Big Daddy vanished. David's hands grasped empty air.
With a cry of frustration, he collapsed into the chair. He pounded the armrest with his fist.
Big Daddy had been telling him something important, something absolutely critical, and he could not figure out what he meant. The time was coming for him to fulfill his responsibility to his family? The Hunters' legacy? None of it meant anything to him.
But it meant everything to his grandfather.
He had no doubt that he had seen a genuine ghost. A few days ago, when Nia had related her own story of spirits she'd seen at the Mason place, he had been skeptical. Not anymore.
Indeed, the rocking chair itself was cold; touching the wood sent a chill through his fingers.
David believed, fully. There was nothing like seeing a specter with your own eyes, and feeling the remnants of its presence with your own hands, to erase every figment of disbelief.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. David's head snapped up.
King's familiar canine figure regarded him from the doorway. The dog chuffed, tentatively.
"Come here, boy," David said. The dog trotted inside and pressed against him. David stroked King's furry neck, and the dog licked his fingers. Ordinarily David hated for King to lick his hands, but he didn't rebuke the dog this time. King's presence reassured him.
David looked out the window, at the crescent moon in the deep night sky.
Something major was about to happen in his life. Only a fool would choose to ignore the obvious signs.
But what was going to happen, and what was he supposed to do about it?
He would have to discover answers. Soon. He had the feeling that his life depended on it.
Thursday, Nia was on the floor of her bedroom, working through her last set of abdominal crunches, when the telephone rang.
She squeezed out another rep, then hopped to her feet and answered the phone.
"Hello?" she said, breathing hard, trying to catch her breath.
Flat silence came from the earpiece.
"Hello?" she said again.
More silence ... then, husky breathing. Like a man who was sexually aroused.
A blade of ice lanced Nia's spine.
The beguiling, handsome face of Colin Morgan, the teacher who had stalked her in Houston, flashed like a red siren in her mind. She didn't know for sure whether he had called; the Caller ID display said "Unavailable." But her bone-deep intuition told her that he was the culprit.
Had he been paroled from prison already? If so, how had he gotten her phone number?
"Who is this?" she said, one final time.
The caller responded with heavy breathing.
Nia slammed down the phone. She stared at the telephone, as though willing it not to ring again.
But it rang. Again, the Caller ID display stated, "Unavailable."
She picked it up. "Hello?"
Quick, excited panting. Like a hungry wolf on the prowl.
She smashed the handset into the cradle with enough force to rock the table.
Hugging herself to ward off the numbing chill that had seeped into her body, she glared at the phone.
It did not ring again.
But her relief was short-lived. What if the caller really had been Mr. Morgan? What if he had been released from jail?
What if he was coming to get her?
"Don't get carried away," she cautioned herself.
She ordered herself to put it out of mind. The caller was surely some harmless loser with nothing better to do than randomly dial numbers and hope that a woman answered. It wasn't worth worrying about. She should relax.
But she suddenly had so much nervous energy that she worked through an extra two hundred reps of crunches.
David spent Friday at home, determined to learn more about his family.
His encounter with the ghost and the growing mystery of his father's death convinced him that vital clues lay within the house. The challenge was to sort through everything, separate the items that seemed important, and figure out how they fit into the overall puzzle.
Nevertheless, he felt that he was slowly being drawn into something that went deeper than anything he had seen so far. He had only traced the surface. Intuition told him that more awaited him.
He only had to be patient. And alert.
While he was in the living room, flipping through the magazines spread across the coffee table, the doorbell rang.
It was Franklin Bennett. David had spoken with Franklin a couple of times in passing since they'd met last week, but he hadn't gotten the opportunity to sit down and have a prolonged discussion with the man.
"You look quite busy," Franklin said. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you"
"I can chat for a few," David said. "Want to have a seat on the porch, there? I can bring you some ice water, or a soda. Which would you like?"
"Water would be fine, thank you" Franklin settled into a lawn chair.
David was glad that Franklin had visited. Perhaps the retired professor could share some insights that would help him figure out some things about his family.
David got tall glasses of ice water for both of them. When he came back to the veranda, he found King pressed against Franklin's legs, demanding attention. Franklin stroked the dog's back, but King was eager for more.
"Chill out, King," David said. "Let Mr. Bennett relax, will you?"
King appeared to stick out his tongue at David. Franklin chuckled.
"Sorry, the mutt has no manners," David said. He sat next to Franklin and put the water on the table between them.
"How are you adjusting to life in our fine town?" Franklin said.
"To be honest, I like it," David said. "It's a lot slower than Atlanta, but I like the change of pace. The people I've met have been nice, too"
"I'm pleased to hear that, David. Your father was private, but highly esteemed. In a town like Dark Corner your family's reputation precedes you"
"No kidding. Dad knew everyone"
"How is the Richard Hunter exploration going, if you don't mind me asking?" Franklin casually took a sip of water, but his eyes were keen.
David rubbed his hands together. "So far, I have more questions than answers. But I've just gotten started. I'm not giving up anytime soon, not until I'm satisfied."
Franklin frowned. "Can I be frank for a moment, David?"
"Sure"
"You seem to be a stable, successful young man. You've built a business on your own, you're well-spoken, and intelligent. I'm certain that your family is very proud of you. However, I sense that you aren't completely happy with the life you've built for yourself."
"I don't know, maybe," David said. He looked into the depths of his glass. "I feel kind of ... incomplete. Like there's this emptiness in me that I have to fill."
"Because you grew up without your father?"
David nodded. "Maybe, yeah. I tried not to think about it too much when I was a kid. But you know, the older I got, I really started paying attention to some of my buddies who were close to their dads, and they had something special. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother and she raised me well, gave me just about eve
rything I could ask for. Still ... something was missing. That father-son connection."
"It's important," Franklin agreed. "I'm close to my son, and I was close to my father as well. Both relationships have deeply enriched my life."
"You know what I mean, then," David said. "For example, a few days before I moved here, I went to the barbershop. I was sitting in the chair, getting my hair trimmed, and in walks this guy and his son, the kid's maybe five years old. You see this all the time at the barbershop, a father and son going together. But that day, it hit me: my father had never taken me to get a haircut. My mother always took me.
"I almost broke down and cried, right there in the chair. It was a small thing ... but I missed it. All that father-son stuff. I never had it, and I guess I never will, now. But it eats at me. I feel like half a man or something."
"Half a man? Come now, you shouldn't feel that way, David. Don't be so hard on yourself. You did the best you can given your circumstances. You've been blessed."
"I know, you're right," David said. "I tell myself the same things all the time. But it doesn't change how I feel."
Almost savagely, David tipped the glass and downed most of the water in a few gulps, the rush of iciness punishing his throat. Then he set the glass back on the table so loudly that King jumped.
"Let's change the subject," David said.
"Of course," Franklin said. "I shouldn't have pried. I apologize."
"No, it's no problem," David said. His hands were clammy. He blotted his palms on his shorts. "But I have a question for you. I'm hoping you can help me out since you have a background in history."
"Proceed"
"Okay, if I want to learn more about my family's history, what should I look for?"
Franklin's eyes brightened. "I'm pleased that you've asked. I suggest beginning with photographs. Find as many as you can, gather them together, and review them, to piece together the family story."
"Okay, pictures. Got it."
"But that is only a start. Every family has heirlooms and items that have been passed down from one generation to the next. Jewelry, artwork, antiques, journals, letters, legal documents. And books, yes, including Bibles."
"Bibles?"
"Indeed," Franklin said. "Bibles were sometimes used to record information about the family. They may include genealogical data, and in some cases, accounts of which relative married, died, did this or that and when, that sort of thing."
"Okay, you're right. I think I've heard of that before"
"Researching your family history can be enlightening, but it can also be a challenge, David. The oral tradition runs quite strong in the African-American community. The best way to learn about your family is to sit at the feet of an elder and absorb his stories. Unfortunately, you don't have that luxury."
"Yeah," David said. "There were my grandparents on my father's side, but my grandmother died before I was born, and my granddad ... well, I saw him only twice, and the last time was over twenty years ago"
David didn't mention that he'd seen his granddad's ghost. Franklin would think he was crazy.
"And Richard did not have any siblings," Franklin said.
"He's always had a small family," David said. "I don't have a lot of resources to draw on for this stuff."
"You'll do fine," Franklin said. He patted David's hand. "Please don't hesitate to ask for my assistance, at any time. The study of history is my passion."
"I'll remember that," David said. "Thanks"
"We'll have to make good on our plans for dinner, sometime soon. My wife is concerned that you're getting by on sardines and crackers"
David laughed. "Definitely, let's do dinner soon"
"How about tomorrow evening?"
"That works for me. Can I bring a guest?"
"Ah, the beautiful young lady, Miss James" Franklin winked. "Word travels quickly in a small town, son. Of course, she's welcome to come"
David blushed. "I've got to get used to this place."
"See you tomorrow, then," Franklin said.
As David watched Franklin return to his home, he thought about the professor's suggestions. Photographs. Jewelry. Artwork. Antiques. Journals. Letters. Books. Legal documents. Bibles.
He put his hands on his waist, looking around the living room. It was full of stuff, just like all of the rooms in the house. He had no idea where to begin his search.
Start at the top, then, he thought.
In the second-floor hallway, a square panel in the ceiling granted access to the attic.
Standing on a stepladder that he found in the garage, King lying on the carpet and watching him curiously, David slid away the panel. Dust plumed out of the opening. He coughed. The dog sneezed.
After the dust had dissipated, he climbed into the attic.
He switched on a flashlight, panned it around. Cardboard boxes were scattered across the floor. Heaps of clothes. Stacks of moldering books.
Obviously, no one had been up there in years.
But he started looking. Ten minutes later, he made his first noteworthy discovery in a sagging box packed with old science-fiction paperbacks.
A large, leather-bound Bible.
At the kitchen table, David examined the Bible. It was old, there was no doubt about that. The red leather was worn, the gold letters on the cover were faded, and the pages were stiff and yellow. He handled the book carefully, afraid it would crumble into dust.
He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A sheaf of pho tos stuffed between the Old and New Testaments? Notes scribbled in the margins?
He opened the book. He found an ink sketch on the inside front cover. A family tree?
Actually, it wasn't much of a tree. It was a line drawn in the center of the page; rectangular boxes were spaced at various points along the line, and names were written inside each box.
David recognized the names from the snatches of conversation that he remembered from years ago. At the top of the line, "William Hunter" was scribbled. Then "Robert Hunter," followed by "James Hunter," then "John Hunter," followed by "Richard Hunter."
The box at the bottom read, "David Hunter."
An electric current seemed to snap through David's body.
Who had written his name in this book, and when? Had his father done it?
He rubbed his chin, continuing to stare at the bloodlinethat was the only thing he could think to call it.
There was only one child born in each generation, he noted. The child was always a male.
It was weird, especially considering that in the old days of the South, families tended to be large, so the children could help work in the cotton fields.
He couldn't make sense of it. He began to turn more pages.
Various passages throughout the scriptures had been underlined. He read a few verses. They meant nothing to him that he might apply to his family.
He continued to search.
It was an illustrated Bible, evidently. Interspersed between books, he found skillfully drawn black-and-white sketches. He assumed they were depictions of Biblical stories. Interesting.
Leaving the book open, he poured a glass of apple juice. King padded up to him and dramatically lowered his snout to indicate the empty water bowl sitting on the floor. David laughed and gave the dog some fresh water.
Sipping juice, David leaned against the counter, letting his mind chew over what he'd seen.
His gaze happened upon an oil painting done by James Hunter, his great-grandfather. The piece hung on the opposite wall, beside the doorway. It colorfully portrayed black sharecroppers picking cotton, under the glare of a red sun.
David frowned. He'd never paid much attention to the painting before, but now, he stepped closer to it.
His great-granddad's distinctive looping signature was scrawled in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas.
"Oh, shit," David said.
The glass of juice dropped out of his fingers and crashed against the floor.
King, lapping water from
the bowl, yelped in alarm.
David rushed past the shattered glass, and hunched over the Bible. He flipped to an illustration. It was a sketch of a broadshouldered black man, dressed in overalls, leaving a hovel that resembled slave quarters on a plantation. The man gripped a long knife. Behind him, a woman took refuge inside the shack.
The name "James Hunter" was scribbled in the lower right-hand corner of the drawing.
Hands trembling, David turned to another sketch.
The male character from the previous drawing stood at the head of a crew of similarly dressed men, leading a charge against a mob of people who were swathed in shadows. James Hunter had created this sketch as well.
Years of Sunday school had familiarized David with the Bible. These were not scenes from any Biblical tales that he'd ever read.
In another sketch, the same male figure, along with two other black men, and two white men, approached what looked like an Indian encampment. The men were bedraggled and empty-handed, as if seeking help.
Yet another drawing showed the broad-shouldered character leading a posse of men toward a cave that was guarded by a slavering pack of huge dogs. The seven-member teaman assortment of blacks, whites, and Indians were armed with rifles, handguns, and bows and arrows.
If these illustrations had nothing to do with Biblical text, then what did they represent, and why had his great-grandfather created them?
The telephone rang.
Annoyed at being interrupted as he teetered on the edge of a breakthrough, David snatched the telephone handset off the wall.
"Hello?" he said.
A soft, feminine voice said in a whisper, "David Hunter ... you are"
God help him, it sounded like another ghost.
He stood as rigid as a rod. "Who is this?"
"You are ... responsible," the woman said in her unearthly voice. "You must prepare"
"Responsible for what? Prepare for what?"
"It is being revealed to you ... you must believe ... and be strong"
"Who are you?"
The phone clicked.
The caller had hung up.
"Dammit!" David said. He had neither Caller ID nor Star 69 included on the phone service. His father had no use for such modern technology.
Was it a call from the Beyond? Or was there a more ordinary source?
Dark Corner Page 13
